Bewitched, Chapter 24
Sep. 13th, 2009 11:39 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
thismazTitle: Bewitched, Chapter 24
Pairing: S/X. I promise it will get back there... eventually.
Rating: This chapter PG-13
Summary: Valentine's Day arrived and Dru dipped her finger in the brew, giving it a stir. That was two years ago; the fall-out is still falling.
Word Count: 3,350
Betaed by![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sparrow2000 and DJ, for which, many thanks. Thanks also to Sparrow for conflabbing on plot twists and forms.
Comments: Are greatly appreciated, loved and cherished.
Disclaimer: here.
Prologue here, with a link to the other chapters, or you can find the whole thing, in reverse order, in tags, or in the correct order, in memories. There's a menu of links on the right hand side of my main journal page.
Many thanks tomwrgana for the beautiful banner.
Chapter 24
Xander collected his keys and moved out of the motel with sigh of relief, dumping his boxes at the apartment on his way to work. He'd taken the day off and was planning to give Mr Donato warning that he wanted to drop dayshift entirely and go back to only working deliveries, now that he'd got his place. He also wanted to ask for the next night off, so he could invite Giles, Buffy, Willow and Oz over.
It was as he was approaching the front door of the restaurant that a clatter, like multiple trash can lids falling, caused him to stop and then turn into the alley that ran down the side of the building. Placing his feet with careful deliberation, rolling his weight from heel to toe, he peered into the darkness and pulled his stake out of his pocket. All he could see at first was a dumpster and a sharply defined bar of yellow light spilling out from the open kitchen door. It was not enough to see by, presenting a glaring contrast that made the shadows beyond its reach appear even more impenetrable. He walked forward, very carefully.
He was a few feet short of the dumpster when he heard a scuffling sound from beyond it and a muffled Italian curse. Palming his stake, in case Mr Donato had simply dropped something in the dark, he rounded the end of the dumpster. In front of him was the denim covered back of a tall man who was curved over a smaller body that he had jammed against the wall. The sounds of feeding were unmistakable.
A pair of hands flapped uselessly at the vampire, slapping at his upper arms, but that was all that could be seen of the victim. Xander raised his stake and took the last two steps that brought him into range. Pausing for a moment to make sure his aim was true, he brought the stake down with all his strength. The momentary resistance provided by the denim gave way to the still disconcerting sensation of it slicing easily into the vampire's chest cavity. There was a pause and then a faint whooshing sound as the vampire dissipated into a cloud of dust, leaving Mr Donato to slide slowly down the wall to the ground.
A flood of abruptly unnecessary adrenaline threw a wave of dizziness at Xander and he dropped into a crouch, as much because he couldn't stand as to allow him to see Mr Donato better. "Mr Donato?" he whispered, tapping his boss gently on the cheek. "Mr Donato, are you okay?"
Mr Donato stirred weakly. The wound wasn't bleeding much and Xander suspected that that might not be a good thing. He pushed himself back to his feet and ran through the back door, into the kitchen and to where the telephone hung on the wall.
Grabbing the phone off its rest, he dialled 911. "I need an ambulance at Dino's Pizza Place," he gasped, as soon as the operator answered him. He replied to her questions as succinctly as he could. "Blood loss. Yeah, stabbed. Looks like it. I just got here. In the alley down the side. Thanks. Okay." Putting the phone back on its rest he cast a quick glance around the kitchen. It all looked tidy. It appeared that Mr Donato had been interrupted just as he was beginning to set up for the evening shift. Xander went back out to the alley, to try and keep Mr Donato awake and to press on the wound, until the ambulance arrived.
It was ten o'clock when he walked back through his new front door. It felt like it should be almost morning, but he'd only spent a couple of hours at the hospital and it hadn't been much of a detour, to take the keys thrust upon him and go to check that the shop was properly locked up after his hurried exit with Mr Donato in the ambulance. He'd have to go back in the morning, to put a notice in the window and phone the other two guys who worked there, to tell them that the restaurant would be closed for a week. The doctor had made it clear that Mr Donato needed bed rest and it looked like he was going to do as he was told. He'd suffered a mild heart attack as a result of shock and blood loss, the doctor said, adding that it should be a warning to everybody to be careful when handling sharp kitchen implements.
Xander collapsed on his sofa and lay still, sprawled out like a starfish as the tension of the evening gradually seeped out of his bones, leaving him lax and tired. He wanted a drink, but didn't want to get up to fetch one. He needed his bed and was plotting the easiest mean of getting there when the realisation hit him that he had not only got the night off that he'd wanted, but in addition he was facing a week with no income.
Rubbing his hand over his face, he decided that he couldn't think about that until he'd got some sleep. Heaving himself up, he took a moment to gaze around his living room, admiring the clean walls, the cheap but serviceable furniture and the view over the town to the hills beyond that filled his windows. Then he hauled himself to his feet and went to fall into bed.
The next morning, he slept very late, waking up stiff in every joint and for the first time he acknowledged the physical toll that living at the motel had exacted from him. He had to go out to buy milk before he could even make himself a cup of coffee, but he wasn't tempted by the enticing smells wafting out from the Espresso Pump. He wanted to get back and make his own coffee in his own kitchen.
After a breakfast of more coffee and puffed wheat, it didn't take long to unpack his few belongings. In addition to the stuff he had from his road trip, and the bits and pieces he'd bought over the preceding week to furnish his kitchen, there were only the books he'd retrieved from his mom, when he visited to check she was okay on the day after The Ring.
Once everything was tucked neatly away and after carefully washing his mug and cereal bowl, Xander grabbed his keys and took extra pleasure in locking his front door on his way out to see his mom, to tell her where he was now living.
Two hours later he was back with his car piled high with the contents of his old room and a few bits of furniture that his mom had thrust upon him. She seemed to have the idea that surrounding himself with the things from his childhood would make him feel more at home in a new place. He didn't have the heart to tell her that most things she had decided were essential for that, were things he'd mostly grown out of. He couldn't imagine when he'd want to display his old superman comforter on his new bed or hang the model spaceships from the ceiling. Most of it went straight into the hall closet.
He spent the afternoon shopping for glasses, more plates and flatware, soda, English tea and snacks and picking up menus from his favourite takeaways. He decided to offer his first guests a Chinese banquet. For reasons of loyalty, he didn't feel comfortable offering them pizza, with Dino's being closed.
They arrived bearing gifts - Giles brought a pop-up toaster, Oz and Willow, a pair of exotic throw cushions and Buffy gave him a framed photograph of the three of them, to remind him they would always be friends, she said.
The food arrived without incident, brought by a guy Xander knew vaguely from crossing paths with him on deliveries, and he took it back into the kitchen. "Someone should set up a union of Sunnydale fast food delivery workers," he observed. "To keep an eye out for each other."
Giles looked up from where he was pouring out glasses of soda. "That's a good idea, Xander, maybe you should."
Xander shook his head and laughed. "Nah, I'm not going to be doing the job long enough. But I'll mention it to a couple of the guys I see around."
"You're getting a new job?" Willow asked, pausing in her task of laying out plates.
"Thinking about it." He shared a grimace with Giles. "There's not much out there, though."
Buffy looked up from investigating the contents of the bags. "You should come and have a look at the posting board on campus," she said. "There's always jobs going there."
They took their seats at the kitchen table and began to serve themselves. Giles reached for the tray of ribs. "The sort of work being offered to students is hardly what Xander will be looking for," he pointed out.
Buffy acknowledged the justice of that with a shrug, but it gave Xander a thought. "Actually, that's not a bad idea," he said. "I need something very short term, since Dino's is closed for a week."
Willow was immediately curious, which led to Xander telling them the story of his rescue of his boss and that, in turn, led to Buffy's latest slay behind Fischer Hall and from there the conversation veered, via a short discussion of the campus study facilities, into academic spheres. As they ate, Xander watched his friends chatting about various professors and what they were learning. Buffy and Willow waxed lyrical about their psychology class. Oz was more restrained in his adoration of Professor Walsh, but became almost animated when expounding some theory about superegos and the id. Even Giles was able to take an active part, asking questions that caused Oz to think carefully before answering. Xander sat back and watched, happy to see Giles so obviously in his element, even if he was not particularly familiar with the latest thinking on the subjects they discussed. For himself, he basked in the knowledge that, even if they were moving on with their lives, they were still his friends and, at last, he was pulling himself free from the paralysis that had gripped him in the preceding weeks. Now that he had made a public declaration of his intention to find another job, he felt that he had already taken the first step towards achieving it.
He slept for eleven hours straight that night.
The next afternoon, Buffy's comment about the notice board led him to the UC Sunnydale campus and sure enough there were plenty of help wanted notices. He'd noted down a couple of numbers before the one for a bartender at the campus pub caught his eye. That looked ideal. The age limit barred many students from applying, but his Oxnard ID card would make short work of that problem. A bar job on campus would also give him a legitimate reason for being there and maybe a chance to see more of his favourite girls, and Oz.
If he'd known that as a result he'd spend the last part of the evening, three days later, with Giles, trying to find cave-Buffy, he might have reconsidered. On the other hand, if he hadn't been there, it could have been so much worse.
Thankfully Buffy recovered quite quickly, certainly more quickly than her partners in drinking crime. Unfortunately, Xander was out of a job again, since the pub had burnt down in the confusion.
*****
Spike ignored The Witch and the Weasel with their clipboards, behind him, and worried at the hard, white paint with the tip of his fingernail, until he could see that he'd left a permanent mark - the fourth in a row down the edge of a wall panel at the back of his cell. Four days since he'd woken up to find himself back on the floor. Four days of no distractions, except the regular patrols by soldiers who never looked inside the cells as they passed. Two days since he'd had anything to eat.
For all his seeming inattention, Spike was listening carefully. "It appears that the operation was successful this time," the Weasel observed.
The Witch made a thoughtful noise. "Not what I intended for this subject. For the record, I don't appreciate having my specimens hi-jacked without my knowledge. I want to see Dr Angleman's theatre notes, as soon as we get back, so I can study the exact procedure he used." A pause was followed by her continuing, more thoughtfully, "But as you say, it has survived the operation, which goes some way to compensate for his high-handed behaviour."
There was another short pause before she sighed and said, "We need more test subjects. Alpha Team are the most successful. Make a note to change their patrol to the areas in quadrant C."
There was no reply, but Spike could imagine the Weasel scribbling away at his papers. "Finally," she added, "I want Angleman to do a thorough scan, to check the incision has healed, before he attempts activation."
"Certainly, Professor."
"If that's clear, I think we can declare the prototype ready for testing. And from what we've seen, retrieval afterwards should be clean."
The Weasel's voice was hesitant. "Assuming it survives," he suggested. "Clothes don't appear to do so."
"Ah, that's been demonstrated, has it?"
"Yesterday, while you were in DC. We postulate a flash release of energy at the moment the system disintegrates. We're hoping to test the theory in controlled conditions, as soon as we have more subjects."
Spike could hear the smile in The Witch's voice and it didn't sound pretty. "Well, it is a prototype. Angleman will have to do his best to retrieve it intact, but that's a concern for later. The important thing is to find out if it works."
"And after activation?"
"Restraints and a suitable goad should work"
"It's a weak specimen, are you sure it will react?"
"Given sufficient incentive, I have no doubts." Another pause, longer this time, during which Spike resisted the urge to turn around and check what they were doing, was followed by an obvious change of topic and Spike guessed that they were done with him. "The gamma five group," The Witch asked, "what progress did you make with them, yesterday?"
They started walking away and Spike crawled along the side wall, closer to the glass front of the cell so that he could hear them, but there was nothing in their exchange that sounded relevant to his situation. When they finally passed beyond earshot, he settled back against the wall to review what he had just overheard and add it to what he'd picked up already, in the hope of making some sense from it all.
He was still weak. The blood he'd been given in the first two days after waking up had hardly touched the sides. He'd been surprised by how much he'd needed, just to heal from a few burns, but the situation wasn't yet critical. He'd gone for two weeks before, during very lean times. This was different, though. Like all predators, his body functioned best with a regular intake of food and in the past he'd been able to sleep through the day, but sleep was difficult when he was penned up at the mercy of the enemy and the stress conditions were wearing away at his reserves.
In addition to steadily increasing hunger, for the first three days after his return to his cell, he'd also suffered from a strange listlessness that he'd been at a loss to diagnose. Furious as he was, he'd not had the energy to rant and scream, or to smash the cell. It would have been difficult to do, but if he'd been at the top of his game he'd have managed it.
It was his next-cell-neighbour who'd supplied the clue. Spike had been lying on the floor when shouting impinged upon his awareness, rousing him from his semi-dreamlike musings. "No!" the voice yelled. "No, I know what you're doing. I don't want it!"
Such a noise was so unusual in that place, that it caused Spike to open his eyes. There was a distinct note of desperation in his neighbour's voice. He sounded like a man pushed to the limits of his endurance, or maybe a few steps beyond.
After what felt like an age, during which the guy next door continued to rant and rave, Spike raised his head off the floor. "Shut the fuck up!" he yelled.
For a blissful moment he thought it had worked, but then the voice came again, closer this time, if slightly softer. It appeared that by acknowledging the guy's existence, he'd inadvertently encouraged him to try for conversation, which was the last thing Spike felt like engaging in. He was mildly surprised that the screams hadn't raised a more general uproar from the occupants of the other cells.
"You don't understand," the guy called. "If I drink it, it'll knock me out and then they'll take me away, and then, and then..." He ended on a wail. "I don't like being hurt."
Pushing himself up, so that he was sitting, leaning against the wall, Spike sighed. "You pathetic whiner," he snarled. "Will you just shut the fuck up? I'm trying to think here."
"Can't think. It's in the air. All around. You breathe it in and you don't even know. I thought I was alive and I tried to die. I stopped breathing but it just made everything clearer. Just made it hurt more."
He sounded totally crazy, but Spike was fluent in crazy and he picked out the salient points from the guy's ramblings. It was enough to prick his interest. "What don't you want, mate?" he asked, rolling to his feet and walking over to the join between the dividing wall and the glass front of his cell, from where the voice seemed to be coming.
"The blood." That made sense. Spike already suspected that the blood was occasionally drugged. He'd simply needed it too much to care.
"What else?" he asked, putting as much authority as he could muster into the question.
His neighbour responded to the tone, confirming Spike's guess that he was a vampire and probably a young one. "It's in the air. They keep us quiet. But it's sitting there."
"What's sitting there?"
"All red and warm."
"Blood?" Spike guessed.
"I'm so hungry," the guy cried. "They starve you until you're ready to chew off your own arm, then they drop it on you and it's sitting there. And I'm so hungry," he wailed again.
There was a scrabbling sound and Spike shouted out, "Wait!" but the vampire didn't reply. Spike strained his ears and he could hear a faint whimpering, then silence.
He went back to sitting against the wall. Ten minutes later a couple of technicians arrived with a trolley and took the guy away. He didn't come back.
His words made Spike think, though, and he spent the rest of the day consciously not breathing. It was against all training and habit, which was geared towards helping a vampire blend in with the prey population, but it was still a semi-conscious reflex, so Spike stopped doing it and sure enough he felt some of the strange lassitude fade and an increase in energy, in spite of the hunger.
Once he thought of it, it seemed obvious to suspect a drug in the air filters. The cells were not full, but there were too many demons who were natural enemies penned up in this one corridor. Under normal conditions, if such could exist in this place, the air should be full of growls and screams. At the same time as it infuriated him that it had taken him so long to catch on, it also amused Spike that the designers of this prison never considered the possibility of inmates who didn't need to breathe. He began to plan.
Chapter 25
Pairing: S/X. I promise it will get back there... eventually.
Rating: This chapter PG-13
Summary: Valentine's Day arrived and Dru dipped her finger in the brew, giving it a stir. That was two years ago; the fall-out is still falling.
Word Count: 3,350
Betaed by
sparrow2000 and DJ, for which, many thanks. Thanks also to Sparrow for conflabbing on plot twists and forms.Comments: Are greatly appreciated, loved and cherished.
Disclaimer: here.
Prologue here, with a link to the other chapters, or you can find the whole thing, in reverse order, in tags, or in the correct order, in memories. There's a menu of links on the right hand side of my main journal page.
Many thanks to
mwrgana for the beautiful banner.Chapter 24
Xander collected his keys and moved out of the motel with sigh of relief, dumping his boxes at the apartment on his way to work. He'd taken the day off and was planning to give Mr Donato warning that he wanted to drop dayshift entirely and go back to only working deliveries, now that he'd got his place. He also wanted to ask for the next night off, so he could invite Giles, Buffy, Willow and Oz over.
It was as he was approaching the front door of the restaurant that a clatter, like multiple trash can lids falling, caused him to stop and then turn into the alley that ran down the side of the building. Placing his feet with careful deliberation, rolling his weight from heel to toe, he peered into the darkness and pulled his stake out of his pocket. All he could see at first was a dumpster and a sharply defined bar of yellow light spilling out from the open kitchen door. It was not enough to see by, presenting a glaring contrast that made the shadows beyond its reach appear even more impenetrable. He walked forward, very carefully.
He was a few feet short of the dumpster when he heard a scuffling sound from beyond it and a muffled Italian curse. Palming his stake, in case Mr Donato had simply dropped something in the dark, he rounded the end of the dumpster. In front of him was the denim covered back of a tall man who was curved over a smaller body that he had jammed against the wall. The sounds of feeding were unmistakable.
A pair of hands flapped uselessly at the vampire, slapping at his upper arms, but that was all that could be seen of the victim. Xander raised his stake and took the last two steps that brought him into range. Pausing for a moment to make sure his aim was true, he brought the stake down with all his strength. The momentary resistance provided by the denim gave way to the still disconcerting sensation of it slicing easily into the vampire's chest cavity. There was a pause and then a faint whooshing sound as the vampire dissipated into a cloud of dust, leaving Mr Donato to slide slowly down the wall to the ground.
A flood of abruptly unnecessary adrenaline threw a wave of dizziness at Xander and he dropped into a crouch, as much because he couldn't stand as to allow him to see Mr Donato better. "Mr Donato?" he whispered, tapping his boss gently on the cheek. "Mr Donato, are you okay?"
Mr Donato stirred weakly. The wound wasn't bleeding much and Xander suspected that that might not be a good thing. He pushed himself back to his feet and ran through the back door, into the kitchen and to where the telephone hung on the wall.
Grabbing the phone off its rest, he dialled 911. "I need an ambulance at Dino's Pizza Place," he gasped, as soon as the operator answered him. He replied to her questions as succinctly as he could. "Blood loss. Yeah, stabbed. Looks like it. I just got here. In the alley down the side. Thanks. Okay." Putting the phone back on its rest he cast a quick glance around the kitchen. It all looked tidy. It appeared that Mr Donato had been interrupted just as he was beginning to set up for the evening shift. Xander went back out to the alley, to try and keep Mr Donato awake and to press on the wound, until the ambulance arrived.
It was ten o'clock when he walked back through his new front door. It felt like it should be almost morning, but he'd only spent a couple of hours at the hospital and it hadn't been much of a detour, to take the keys thrust upon him and go to check that the shop was properly locked up after his hurried exit with Mr Donato in the ambulance. He'd have to go back in the morning, to put a notice in the window and phone the other two guys who worked there, to tell them that the restaurant would be closed for a week. The doctor had made it clear that Mr Donato needed bed rest and it looked like he was going to do as he was told. He'd suffered a mild heart attack as a result of shock and blood loss, the doctor said, adding that it should be a warning to everybody to be careful when handling sharp kitchen implements.
Xander collapsed on his sofa and lay still, sprawled out like a starfish as the tension of the evening gradually seeped out of his bones, leaving him lax and tired. He wanted a drink, but didn't want to get up to fetch one. He needed his bed and was plotting the easiest mean of getting there when the realisation hit him that he had not only got the night off that he'd wanted, but in addition he was facing a week with no income.
Rubbing his hand over his face, he decided that he couldn't think about that until he'd got some sleep. Heaving himself up, he took a moment to gaze around his living room, admiring the clean walls, the cheap but serviceable furniture and the view over the town to the hills beyond that filled his windows. Then he hauled himself to his feet and went to fall into bed.
The next morning, he slept very late, waking up stiff in every joint and for the first time he acknowledged the physical toll that living at the motel had exacted from him. He had to go out to buy milk before he could even make himself a cup of coffee, but he wasn't tempted by the enticing smells wafting out from the Espresso Pump. He wanted to get back and make his own coffee in his own kitchen.
After a breakfast of more coffee and puffed wheat, it didn't take long to unpack his few belongings. In addition to the stuff he had from his road trip, and the bits and pieces he'd bought over the preceding week to furnish his kitchen, there were only the books he'd retrieved from his mom, when he visited to check she was okay on the day after The Ring.
Once everything was tucked neatly away and after carefully washing his mug and cereal bowl, Xander grabbed his keys and took extra pleasure in locking his front door on his way out to see his mom, to tell her where he was now living.
Two hours later he was back with his car piled high with the contents of his old room and a few bits of furniture that his mom had thrust upon him. She seemed to have the idea that surrounding himself with the things from his childhood would make him feel more at home in a new place. He didn't have the heart to tell her that most things she had decided were essential for that, were things he'd mostly grown out of. He couldn't imagine when he'd want to display his old superman comforter on his new bed or hang the model spaceships from the ceiling. Most of it went straight into the hall closet.
He spent the afternoon shopping for glasses, more plates and flatware, soda, English tea and snacks and picking up menus from his favourite takeaways. He decided to offer his first guests a Chinese banquet. For reasons of loyalty, he didn't feel comfortable offering them pizza, with Dino's being closed.
They arrived bearing gifts - Giles brought a pop-up toaster, Oz and Willow, a pair of exotic throw cushions and Buffy gave him a framed photograph of the three of them, to remind him they would always be friends, she said.
The food arrived without incident, brought by a guy Xander knew vaguely from crossing paths with him on deliveries, and he took it back into the kitchen. "Someone should set up a union of Sunnydale fast food delivery workers," he observed. "To keep an eye out for each other."
Giles looked up from where he was pouring out glasses of soda. "That's a good idea, Xander, maybe you should."
Xander shook his head and laughed. "Nah, I'm not going to be doing the job long enough. But I'll mention it to a couple of the guys I see around."
"You're getting a new job?" Willow asked, pausing in her task of laying out plates.
"Thinking about it." He shared a grimace with Giles. "There's not much out there, though."
Buffy looked up from investigating the contents of the bags. "You should come and have a look at the posting board on campus," she said. "There's always jobs going there."
They took their seats at the kitchen table and began to serve themselves. Giles reached for the tray of ribs. "The sort of work being offered to students is hardly what Xander will be looking for," he pointed out.
Buffy acknowledged the justice of that with a shrug, but it gave Xander a thought. "Actually, that's not a bad idea," he said. "I need something very short term, since Dino's is closed for a week."
Willow was immediately curious, which led to Xander telling them the story of his rescue of his boss and that, in turn, led to Buffy's latest slay behind Fischer Hall and from there the conversation veered, via a short discussion of the campus study facilities, into academic spheres. As they ate, Xander watched his friends chatting about various professors and what they were learning. Buffy and Willow waxed lyrical about their psychology class. Oz was more restrained in his adoration of Professor Walsh, but became almost animated when expounding some theory about superegos and the id. Even Giles was able to take an active part, asking questions that caused Oz to think carefully before answering. Xander sat back and watched, happy to see Giles so obviously in his element, even if he was not particularly familiar with the latest thinking on the subjects they discussed. For himself, he basked in the knowledge that, even if they were moving on with their lives, they were still his friends and, at last, he was pulling himself free from the paralysis that had gripped him in the preceding weeks. Now that he had made a public declaration of his intention to find another job, he felt that he had already taken the first step towards achieving it.
He slept for eleven hours straight that night.
The next afternoon, Buffy's comment about the notice board led him to the UC Sunnydale campus and sure enough there were plenty of help wanted notices. He'd noted down a couple of numbers before the one for a bartender at the campus pub caught his eye. That looked ideal. The age limit barred many students from applying, but his Oxnard ID card would make short work of that problem. A bar job on campus would also give him a legitimate reason for being there and maybe a chance to see more of his favourite girls, and Oz.
If he'd known that as a result he'd spend the last part of the evening, three days later, with Giles, trying to find cave-Buffy, he might have reconsidered. On the other hand, if he hadn't been there, it could have been so much worse.
Thankfully Buffy recovered quite quickly, certainly more quickly than her partners in drinking crime. Unfortunately, Xander was out of a job again, since the pub had burnt down in the confusion.
*****
Spike ignored The Witch and the Weasel with their clipboards, behind him, and worried at the hard, white paint with the tip of his fingernail, until he could see that he'd left a permanent mark - the fourth in a row down the edge of a wall panel at the back of his cell. Four days since he'd woken up to find himself back on the floor. Four days of no distractions, except the regular patrols by soldiers who never looked inside the cells as they passed. Two days since he'd had anything to eat.
For all his seeming inattention, Spike was listening carefully. "It appears that the operation was successful this time," the Weasel observed.
The Witch made a thoughtful noise. "Not what I intended for this subject. For the record, I don't appreciate having my specimens hi-jacked without my knowledge. I want to see Dr Angleman's theatre notes, as soon as we get back, so I can study the exact procedure he used." A pause was followed by her continuing, more thoughtfully, "But as you say, it has survived the operation, which goes some way to compensate for his high-handed behaviour."
There was another short pause before she sighed and said, "We need more test subjects. Alpha Team are the most successful. Make a note to change their patrol to the areas in quadrant C."
There was no reply, but Spike could imagine the Weasel scribbling away at his papers. "Finally," she added, "I want Angleman to do a thorough scan, to check the incision has healed, before he attempts activation."
"Certainly, Professor."
"If that's clear, I think we can declare the prototype ready for testing. And from what we've seen, retrieval afterwards should be clean."
The Weasel's voice was hesitant. "Assuming it survives," he suggested. "Clothes don't appear to do so."
"Ah, that's been demonstrated, has it?"
"Yesterday, while you were in DC. We postulate a flash release of energy at the moment the system disintegrates. We're hoping to test the theory in controlled conditions, as soon as we have more subjects."
Spike could hear the smile in The Witch's voice and it didn't sound pretty. "Well, it is a prototype. Angleman will have to do his best to retrieve it intact, but that's a concern for later. The important thing is to find out if it works."
"And after activation?"
"Restraints and a suitable goad should work"
"It's a weak specimen, are you sure it will react?"
"Given sufficient incentive, I have no doubts." Another pause, longer this time, during which Spike resisted the urge to turn around and check what they were doing, was followed by an obvious change of topic and Spike guessed that they were done with him. "The gamma five group," The Witch asked, "what progress did you make with them, yesterday?"
They started walking away and Spike crawled along the side wall, closer to the glass front of the cell so that he could hear them, but there was nothing in their exchange that sounded relevant to his situation. When they finally passed beyond earshot, he settled back against the wall to review what he had just overheard and add it to what he'd picked up already, in the hope of making some sense from it all.
He was still weak. The blood he'd been given in the first two days after waking up had hardly touched the sides. He'd been surprised by how much he'd needed, just to heal from a few burns, but the situation wasn't yet critical. He'd gone for two weeks before, during very lean times. This was different, though. Like all predators, his body functioned best with a regular intake of food and in the past he'd been able to sleep through the day, but sleep was difficult when he was penned up at the mercy of the enemy and the stress conditions were wearing away at his reserves.
In addition to steadily increasing hunger, for the first three days after his return to his cell, he'd also suffered from a strange listlessness that he'd been at a loss to diagnose. Furious as he was, he'd not had the energy to rant and scream, or to smash the cell. It would have been difficult to do, but if he'd been at the top of his game he'd have managed it.
It was his next-cell-neighbour who'd supplied the clue. Spike had been lying on the floor when shouting impinged upon his awareness, rousing him from his semi-dreamlike musings. "No!" the voice yelled. "No, I know what you're doing. I don't want it!"
Such a noise was so unusual in that place, that it caused Spike to open his eyes. There was a distinct note of desperation in his neighbour's voice. He sounded like a man pushed to the limits of his endurance, or maybe a few steps beyond.
After what felt like an age, during which the guy next door continued to rant and rave, Spike raised his head off the floor. "Shut the fuck up!" he yelled.
For a blissful moment he thought it had worked, but then the voice came again, closer this time, if slightly softer. It appeared that by acknowledging the guy's existence, he'd inadvertently encouraged him to try for conversation, which was the last thing Spike felt like engaging in. He was mildly surprised that the screams hadn't raised a more general uproar from the occupants of the other cells.
"You don't understand," the guy called. "If I drink it, it'll knock me out and then they'll take me away, and then, and then..." He ended on a wail. "I don't like being hurt."
Pushing himself up, so that he was sitting, leaning against the wall, Spike sighed. "You pathetic whiner," he snarled. "Will you just shut the fuck up? I'm trying to think here."
"Can't think. It's in the air. All around. You breathe it in and you don't even know. I thought I was alive and I tried to die. I stopped breathing but it just made everything clearer. Just made it hurt more."
He sounded totally crazy, but Spike was fluent in crazy and he picked out the salient points from the guy's ramblings. It was enough to prick his interest. "What don't you want, mate?" he asked, rolling to his feet and walking over to the join between the dividing wall and the glass front of his cell, from where the voice seemed to be coming.
"The blood." That made sense. Spike already suspected that the blood was occasionally drugged. He'd simply needed it too much to care.
"What else?" he asked, putting as much authority as he could muster into the question.
His neighbour responded to the tone, confirming Spike's guess that he was a vampire and probably a young one. "It's in the air. They keep us quiet. But it's sitting there."
"What's sitting there?"
"All red and warm."
"Blood?" Spike guessed.
"I'm so hungry," the guy cried. "They starve you until you're ready to chew off your own arm, then they drop it on you and it's sitting there. And I'm so hungry," he wailed again.
There was a scrabbling sound and Spike shouted out, "Wait!" but the vampire didn't reply. Spike strained his ears and he could hear a faint whimpering, then silence.
He went back to sitting against the wall. Ten minutes later a couple of technicians arrived with a trolley and took the guy away. He didn't come back.
His words made Spike think, though, and he spent the rest of the day consciously not breathing. It was against all training and habit, which was geared towards helping a vampire blend in with the prey population, but it was still a semi-conscious reflex, so Spike stopped doing it and sure enough he felt some of the strange lassitude fade and an increase in energy, in spite of the hunger.
Once he thought of it, it seemed obvious to suspect a drug in the air filters. The cells were not full, but there were too many demons who were natural enemies penned up in this one corridor. Under normal conditions, if such could exist in this place, the air should be full of growls and screams. At the same time as it infuriated him that it had taken him so long to catch on, it also amused Spike that the designers of this prison never considered the possibility of inmates who didn't need to breathe. He began to plan.
Chapter 25
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Date: 2009-09-15 05:13 am (UTC)Yes, Maggie was not a surgeon, but Angleman was, so I think he probably did do the surgery. As for Spike's escape... You and me both, hon. I so want him out of there! *g*
Speak to you soon.